


Salty Sweet

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: (25-18), Age Difference, Character Growth, Cunnilingus, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Domestication, During Canon, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Fluff and Smut, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Murasakibara Atsushi is a Brat, Nipple Play, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Taking Care of Murasakibara Atsushi, Time Skips, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24649372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "It takes a moment to force your expression into a deliberate calm, to shadow the disquietude that has your heart thrumming out of rhythm in your chest. You clear your throat and wet your lips before formulating an answer that's strained and unsure. 'I don't know if that's the best idea.'” You meet Murasakibara under unusual circumstances and what would typically fade into the background becomes the very center of your life.
Relationships: Murasakibara Atsushi/Reader
Comments: 16
Kudos: 179
Collections: A Labyrinth of Fics





	Salty Sweet

You've walked the same path for what feels like a lifetime, the soles of your shoes worn from friction—and you're beginning to feel as put together as the cracks in the pavement, the same ones you find yourself avoiding for reasons you can't quite understand.

Though in reality, you've only been traveling to the Tōhoku office building for the last few years. Nevertheless, the building that slopes out of the pavement, worn by weather and age, has become more familiar than you care to admit. There's encouragement, however, in the stack of papers piling up on a table at home, indicating that the cost of living expenses is only going to increase with time.

So you step into the space that's become your second home, desk bereft of any personal decoration that could signify long-term use for the sake of _reducing distraction_. There's a list of tasks that you need to finish by the end of the day and there's not enough caffeine in the world to provide the inspiration you need to get motivated. Though it doesn't come easy, you begin to work with a single-minded doggedness that has your hands moving on autopilot.

You spend half the day listening to the higher-ups like not every word from their mouths isn't wasted intention. The other half passes like a blur, but the hands on the clock seem to stick on every hour and _somewhere,_ buried deep-down in the cells of your body, you know that this isn't what you want.

And when you finally return home, you nearly fall asleep on your feet, exhaustion settling into the bones of repetition. You're surrounded by the inky darkness of night, and as your fingers fumble for a light-switch, you become painfully aware of the fact that you've traded your daylight for a career.

Your first love became like a stone and the second left you truly haunted. Now there's only the rapacious hunger of investors to keep you warm and you feel like you're losing your posture from time spent before their feet—it's an allegory of course, but you wear the feeling in your bones and the skin you've worn off your knees.

You wonder in simple rest how long it'll be before you lose your mind.

* * *

You're sitting in the corner of your favorite cafe, a steaming beverage on your right, and a book to your left when he enters, ducking under the door-frame by habitual necessity. His movements exude an air of languid indifference, but there's determination in each step he takes. There's something in the way that he carries himself that rouses your curiosity. You wonder if it's the way his mouth goes from rough-edged to pillow-soft when he smiles, or if it's the way he drags his fingers through the fall of his hair, candy-bright and silky-smooth.

He looks young and insecure, but when he meets your gaze there's a cold severity in the heliotrope of his eyes that freezes you like the frost settling in your lungs. You feel like you've stopped breathing but somehow you're fully conscious of your surroundings. You open your mouth as if to say something, but you're too far apart and he's already turning his back on you to place his order.

You drag your tongue over the bottom line of your mouth, which now feels like cotton and grain, and it takes no less than the next thirty seconds for you to remember that you have access to a beverage. You busy yourself with the styrofoam container, fingers clutching the warmth between your hands for sake of distraction because you shouldn't be paying so much attention to the low drawl of his voice.

It's gone too soon and you find yourself wanting to hear more of that inflection—and it's as if he's read your mind because he's suddenly shrouding you in the shadow of his large frame. Your heart hammers in your chest and excitement begins thrumming through your veins as you listen for the sound of his voice. Curiosity finds its way into your bloodstream, laced with something akin to hopefulness. Then he's grabbing your pastry and trading it for one of his own.

And if not for the shock of his brazenness you would have chased him through the exit, but you're too hung up on his stupid smile and the bruises on his neck to bother.

For the first time in a _long_ time, you remember what it's like to feel a spark, but you don't see the point in lighting the candles for a fire that will never burn. So you blow out your matches and try to forget the way his mere existence spoke to you.

Yet, the memory sticks with you like the sugar-sweet that settled in the cracks of his lips. You had no idea a stranger could tip your whole world upside down; to knock you sideways and steal the very breath from your lungs.

But that unawareness is starting to shift to understanding.

* * *

You don't know if it's by miracle or some form of mockery when you see him again. It's the middle of autumn and the leaves are falling from the trees, littering the ground to desiccate in time. The sun is high in the sky, playing a game of hide-and-seek with the cinereal clouds that stipple brilliant blue—but nothing calls for your attention more than the boy standing at the south end of a basketball court.

You take a moment to watch the other players, eyes following each practiced movement with unblinking interest. You expect him to leap into action at any moment, but when you pin your focus on him he's yawning so wide you can almost see boredom written in the lines of his face. You find that your mouth is dragging into a frown, disappointment making a statement in the shape of your lips. You can't explain it but you suppose, for a brief moment, you wish that you could be a part of his world. Yet, you feel as if you've been painted an invisible gray, trapped by a breath that leaves you to choke on the realization that he doesn't even _know_ you.

Your heart feels heavy and all you want to do is let it carry you home but then he's moving, muscles flexing with the shift of his limbs as he smacks an attempted shot half-way across the court. The motion is fluid, unthinking, and the grace of it takes you by surprise.

It's then that you can see yourself in the way he pauses, and you want to believe that you have nothing to lose at this point, but you're a million miles from the freedom you need to pursue him. You swallow thickly and taste the stale promise of coming years, afraid that you've committed yourself to an early grave.

You let your hands graze the diamond-shapes beneath your fingers as you start to walk away. You don't know why, but you steal another glimpse at him, and when your eyes make contact not even the fence can keep you standing in the arms of fate.

When you leave, you feel like a paper doll, stripped bare and torn at your every edge.

Little did you know, then, that this was only the beginning.

* * *

You're twenty-five and in the middle of a crowded street when he bumps into you. There's candy on his lips and snow in his hair and you want to speak to him so badly that you can't help but blurt, “Hey! You're the guy who stole my pastry.”

You don't think he hears you at first, but then he's lowering his gaze toward the sound of your voice. “Huh? Do I know you?”

You wonder if it's due to everyday occurrence—an inveterate thief—that makes you indistinguishable from the rest, but it leaves something bitter on your tongue all the same.

“Not personally, but we were in the same cafe not long ago and you helped yourself to my pastry. Don't you remember?” you ask, fingers catching on the strap of your purse for something to hold onto.

“Oh. No, I don't remember,” he says, unaffected by the weight of your claim.

You knit your brows together in consternation, quickly finding yourself agitated by his indifference. But through your irritation, you feel small and insignificant. You remind yourself that you're a strong, independent woman, and nothing about the boy in front of you can shake the foundation you've worked so hard to build. So you take a moment, let it burn through you until it doesn't hurt anymore.

And that's when you unknowingly push your way into his life.

* * *

You find yourself at the opposite end of town in a place previously unknown to you. There's a mug of cappuccino near the bend of your elbow, but it's grown cold in favor of conversation with the boy across from you. You've learned his name; learned that he's lazy and apathetic and self-absorbed. You've learned that he has a penchant for sweets and an aversion towards philanthropists. And through personal observation, you have calculated that he's childish and tenacious and self-indulgent. It's plain to see that he's demanding, insolent at times, and a bully when he sees fit—and that there's no critical oversight in what he does, only pure intention.

And for some indescribable reason you want to be a part of his whole existence; to take part in the moments when passion becomes a pivotal point in his mood, when desire spells urgency across the inside of his wrist, and he can no longer quell the craving that spills through his veins. You know that you're basing your choices on emotion rather than logical thought, but it doesn't matter because you want to be there when his mood turns sour, too; when he's headstrong and indignant and unpredictable to a fault—it's all the same to you because hidden somewhere deep down inside of your DNA, you've been looking for this.

“Are you listening to me, ____-chin?” he rumbles, crumbs on his mouth, and the beginnings of irritability glistering in the waters of his gaze.

You laugh, the sound a muted lilt on your breath when you reach forward to sweep the debris from his lips. The corner of his mouth lifts into the briefest of smiles, then his tongue catches the pad of your thumb and you think that you've just tasted air for the first time.

* * *

You're lying in bed, the sound of your television playing in the distance, but it's not loud enough to drown out the vibration of Murasakibara's voice inside your head.

You roll onto your side, fingers smoothing the wrinkled fabric beneath you as you silently wonder what it would be like to share your bed with him. You think it's a bit absurd given that you've just met, but you can see him behind the dark of your lashes when you close your eyes. You can _feel_ him in the irregular beat of your heart and the heat of your veins.

It still seems so surreal to you, like you're walking the edge of fantasy but you can't wake yourself up because this isn't a dream. No matter how many times you try to tell yourself that you're imagining the lingering effect of his presence, it's clear in the number he scrawled across your wrist. The same number you entered in your phone hours ago, fingers trembling with all the enthusiasm of a child come Christmas morning.

Of course, you had to offer your own in exchange along with the promise of future sweets. But with every shred of knowing in your heart, with the fact that he's young and it's no longer summer, you still have to take the dive. You need him to take the edge off your thirst; you're desperate and needy and you don't care that there's darkness drinking from his cup—you don't care about boxes of chocolates and long-stemmed roses; you just want to feel his lips against your skin. So despite knowing that this could end terribly, you tip your head back and swallow the last dregs of your skepticism in favor of spending a single night in his company.

* * *

Three days pass before you make plans to meet and every minute that ticks by feels like an eternity. The mundane repetition of work stays as such, stretching each day thinner and thinner as you draw nearer to the time of your meeting.

You can almost taste sugar and coffee on your lips from the anticipation of seeing him again. It's not an easy task but you fumble through the daily grind, your subconscious a metronome that sounds like a bomb ready to detonate as it grows louder inside your head.

And just when it feels like you're watching the sunrise, the taste of freedom within reach, you're told that your hours have been extended. It feels like a punch to the face and being a believer in _all things happen for a reason_ you start to wonder if this is really _meant to be_.

* * *

It comes as a surprise when Murasakibara changes your meeting place from the cafe to the grocery store. It's not an ideal date by normal standards but you're so desperate to see him that you feel almost obligated to entertain his request. Not to mention, you haven't the slightest clue as to how this is going to play out. Which in theory sounds new and exciting, but you can almost foresee what's mockingly obvious to hindsight; meaning that going shopping with Murasakibara could be dangerous.

And halfway through the store you quickly realize that _could be dangerous_ translates to an _absolute_ _nightmare_. You spend over half the time putting items back on their respective shelves, all while arguing with Murasakibara about how buying a three-gallon tub of ice cream is entirely impractical given the size of your freezer. It dawns on you at that moment that he's planning on coming over to your house afterward, and in the time it takes to dislodge your tongue from the roof of your mouth he's put several things back into the cart.

“Wait one second. You never told me that you wanted to go to my place tonight. I certainly don't have dinner for _two_ and there's nothing in this cart that qualifies as a meal.” You reach into the metal basket and withdraw a plastic package of twenty-four cupcakes, placing them on the shelf next to you.

“In case you didn't know, we're at a grocery store, ____-chin,” Murasakibara says, sarcasm dripping off his tone like raw honey. He retrieves the aforementioned cupcakes from the shelf and places them back into the cart.

“And I suppose you expect me to pay for all of this,” you counter, huffing a breath of impatience as you thrust the decorated treats behind a stack of bread.

“I never said I was buying,” Murasakibara intones. “'Sides, it's cheaper than going out to a restaurant. I like food, but it takes too long and I don't like all the noise.”

“I think _liking_ food is a bit of an understatement,” you quip, voice rising just above a hushed whisper as you look at the contents of the cart. “And I don't think that this is going to cost less than going out.”

“If you buy, I'll cook,” Murasakibara offers. The resistance of his chest comes in contact with your shoulders when he reaches toward the top shelf, a hand closing around a box of bread crumbs. A shiver passes down the length of your spine and you have to tighten your hold on the cart to keep yourself from toppling sideways.

“Do you even know how to cook meals that don't call for infinite amounts of sugar?” You eye the box as he tosses it into the basket with little care for the other groceries. Then his hand is coming down on your shoulder, squeezing in a gesture that you can't quite read.

“Don't insult me, ____-chin,” Murasakibara warns. His eyes are slanted in your direction and there's no give in the shape of his mouth that signifies humor. “I'll make you the best meal you've ever had.”

His hand leaves your shoulder and he's already walking down the aisle by the time you come to your senses, each lazy step he takes still covering two times the length of your own. “How was I supposed to know?” You try to inject your tone with annoyance, but the vibration is off and the statement ends up sounding more like a curious appraisal. You shake your head, trying hard not to smile as you rush to keep up with him.

By the time you're finished, there's an entire week's worth of pay on the conveyor belt and Murasakibara is complaining about being tired even though _he_ chose the grocery store as the confluence between your homes.

If not for his incessant whining and the time it took for you to get through the store you'd be half-tempted to leave the contents behind. However, you'd be lying if you said you weren't curious about his cooking – or perhaps it's the vague experimentation that comes from having him in your residence that has your interest soaring through the roof.

You pay what's owed and order Murasakibara to carry the bulk of the bags, and just as you're passing through the exit doors you catch sight of the cupcakes that waged a silent war between you through the transparency of plastic.

“This meal _better_ be the best thing I've ever eaten,” you mutter. But the threat is lost to the crunch of something between Murasakibara's teeth.

* * *

“____-chin,” Murasakibara calls, deliberately lilting the nickname so the sound of his voice will carry to the opposite end of your apartment. “Dinner's done.”

“I'll be right there,” you return, voice bouncing down the hall in a high-pitched tone that echoes in your ears. You smooth down the front of your shirt, the crisp cotton freshly laundered and clinging to your curves. You catch your reflection in the mirror on the wall and you can almost see the shake in your limbs as the realization of what's happening sinks into your skin like summer rain. There's no certainty in what's to come, but your breath still falters on apprehension and you understand all at once that you _need_ this. It's not for insecurity or agitation because you know that you're the one in control, but for the awareness that's shivering over your skin like electricity.

You inhale a deep breath before leaving the safety of your bedroom, the brittle edge of trepidation drawn over each step you take, hands still trembling for what _could_ be.

Murasakibara is standing in the center of your kitchen with something comparable to concern etched across his brow. His eyes are trained on the many dishes in front of him, and before you can open your mouth to comment on the savory-sweet smell filling the room he's ordering you to sit.

“What are we having?” you inquire, slipping into the comfort of a chair you haven't used for months. You rest your elbows on the cool solidity of the table, smiling at Murasakibara as he shuffles across the room with two matching plates.

“Tempura udon and mountain vegetables,” he says, placing the tableware in front of you with a softness that had yet to be seen.

You lower your gaze to the food, blinking at the size of the portion. “It looks delicious.” You reach for a napkin but Murasakibara is staring at you, his gaze fixed on your features as if he's trying to memorize them. It leaves something sticky and cloying in the back of your throat, has a wash of self-consciousness prickling across the tension in your shoulders and down your spine. You swallow what little moisture is left on your tongue before managing a brief: “What?”

There's something unfamiliar and dark behind his eyes, something sharp and unfocused. It makes you feel vulnerable, has the weight of your self-discipline spilling through your fingers like sand.

“I think I want to fuck you,” he says, voice as steady as the utensils between his fingers.

You nearly choke on the breath that enters your lungs, and whatever shred of restraint you had left disintegrates into nothing. You can't seem to find your voice; it's as if your entire ability to speak has slipped into the weight of the statement hanging between you. You can feel heat turn to a blossoming flush across your skin, to which Murasakibara has none; and you have to brace yourself against the table to hold your body steady against the dizzying whirl of your thoughts.

It takes a moment to force your expression into a deliberate calm, to shadow the disquietude that has your heart thrumming out of rhythm in your chest. You clear your throat and wet your lips before formulating an answer that's strained and unsure. “I don't know if that's the best idea.”

“But I want to.” There's a demanding drawl in the tone of Murasakibara's voice, one that has you thinking that he must be used to getting his way. You smile then, as everything slips into place. It's no longer about what you _want_ , but the essence of what it means to be in a relationship _with_ you. It's the push and pull, the signification of what lies between you. You know what your answer would be even without words should you walk the path you so desperately want to, but you know that he's used to taking the easy route and there's no challenge in simplicity.

“I gathered,” you say, voice ringing with finality. “Don't you think it's a bit soon for that?” You spear a vegetable and pop it into your mouth, eyes closing for the flavor that melts against your tongue.

“No. I don't,” Murasakibara answers, his gaze dark and considering as he shrugs his shoulders and falls into a slouch.

“No? So are you telling me that one-night stands are as commonplace to you as the meal we're sharing?” Your attempt at careless disregard falls flat, even to your ears, but Murasakibara isn't paying attention to fine detail because there's tension starting in his shoulders and a crease forming across his forehead.

“You're too pretentious,” he says, and this time his voice sinks into that of a complaint. He slumps lower in his chair and stretches out his legs as he picks up his plate and begins eating hastily.

“I don't think that's the problem here,” you say, lips curving on a smile that brings warmth to your gaze. “I think you're used to getting what you want.” You slide your plate across the table, ignoring the flicker of pained awareness that darkens Murasakibara's eyes. You lift your chair and carry it to the open space next to the loose-limbed boy, nudging his foot out of the way before returning the chair legs to the floor. You reach for his plate, breath ghosting your lips in an airy chuckle when the low rumble of a growl spills into resonance. “I have my own plate, Atsushi. Why would I want yours? If you're planning on sleeping with me at some point, you're going to have to learn to trust me.”

Murasakibara frowns, and he's still staring down at your face when you arch an eyebrow and extend your hand. He lowers his plate slowly, fingers tight on the decorative porcelain. “What do you want with it?”

“Just trust me.” Your tone is light but there's an edge of command in place of persuasion that you've adopted in the short time that you've known him— _for_ him. “Here.” You pluck a piece of fried fish from his plate before he can move out of your reach; you expect him to protest, but he's opening his mouth in what seems like expectation. You slide your fingers into his waiting aperture, let the salt-heat of your skin press against his tongue. You study his face with unblinking focus, watch his eyes and lips draw closed in tandem as reflex takes over.

You begin to pull back, but the cool touch of Murasakibara's fingers are closing on your wrist, keeping you frozen to stillness as he works down a swallow that's visible in the shift of his throat. Then he's tugging your hand to his lips to take your fingers back into the warmth of his mouth. He draws his tongue up against your digits and sucks the salt and heat right from your skin as if you're a part of his meal. You can feel yourself flushing but you don't protest. Instead, you find yourself on the edge of your seat, hand tensing as a groan purrs up the back of Murasakibara's throat.

And as far as bad ideas go, you know that you're entering dangerous territory, but the pressure of Murasakibara's mouth around your fingers speaks for more than physical motion—and when you blink he's still staring at you, eyes hungry and dark, and you can't do more than watch the shadow in his eyes as he licks up over your fingers like he's starved for affection. You know exactly what he's playing at because you've played this game before, so you shift your fingers against the rough-wet of his tongue, let them slip deeper into his mouth before sliding them entirely free.

Murasakibara's hold goes bruise-hard against your wrist, keeps you from returning to the center of your chair. You stare at him like you're entranced, doomed to be undone by the way he's appraising you. Then he's rising from his seat, his chin tipped down for the difference in your height. His mouth pulls up at the corners like he's just won a victory over your own impulses, but you're pulling away from his hold the moment you get to your feet. You can see confusion in the way his expression crumbles, cast in the shadows behind the fall of his hair.

“I told you I'm not sleeping with you,” you say. There's a firmness in your tone that impresses you because your self-preservation is fading fast.

And the kick is so divine when Murasakibara narrows his eyes in a pout, childish irritation painted across his features, but it's gone as soon as it comes because he's stepping forward to shove you against the wall. “Then give me something else,” he says and slides his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt in search of bare skin.

You can't find your voice before desire curses curiosity, leaving you to brace your hands on Murasakibara's shoulders as he drops to his knees. He works the fabric of your shirt past the swell of your breasts along with your bra in a single motion that comes far too easy.

“ _Atsushi_.” You can barely hear his name in the catch of your breathing as you slide your fingers through his hair and tug at the strands in contrasting affection. You can feel the thrum of anticipation under his fingertips, can hear his breathing go ragged on overheated air. It leaves you weak in the knees and you're grateful for the breath that enters your lungs because Murasakibara's closing the vibration of a low moan around the tight-heat of a nipple.

A gasp leaves the shadow of your throat when Murasakibara drags his fingertips over your turgid peaks in tandem, scraping the hypersensitive tissue with the edge of his blunt nails. You have no time to formulate a response because he's taking more of your flesh into his mouth, pinching the peak opposite to the one under the manipulation of his tongue roughly. You cry out as your back comes away from the wall, pained-pleasure radiating through your body like the heat in your veins. Murasakibara hums a note of satisfaction, lets you tug him closer to your chest as he scrapes the cool edges of his teeth over your nipples in turn. You shiver at the loss of heat when he shifts from one breast to the other, the saliva on your skin meeting tepid air, but then he's cradling the weight of your abandoned breast in his palm and you forget about the chill slipping down your spine.

A part of you wants to object, but the only sound that leaves your throat is a groan of encouragement, and it's obvious in the way that Murasakibara is using his hands to _touch_ and his mouth to _taste_ that he's not stopping anytime soon. So you let your head fall back and allow the light to catch on the heat of your skin, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat from the surge of sensation itching beneath your flesh.

The velvet-soft of his mouth drags electricity over the stiff response of arousal, has you coming apart at the seams. You close your eyes and accept the weight of his hands on your hips, pinning you to the unyielding surface at your back. You think that you should consider being a wiser fool but you're shuddering so bad that you can't put volume to coherency, and you know that there's nothing you can do to put a stop to the fluttering expectation drawn tight in your stomach.

Murasakibara tightens his hold on your hips as he exhales hard, his lips wet and parted for a shiver of breath he can't seem to find in the tension between your bodies. You begin to open your eyes, lashes fluttering in what feels like protest because your vision is swamped with the dark edges of too-much stimulation. You think he's finished, leaving the slick stain of his salacious thirst to dry on your skin, but then he's curling his fingers around your bottoms to tug them down past the curve of your hips.

“Atsushi!” You reach for the material but your fingers close on air and you're left to swallow a stale breath of anticipation as a knuckle brushes the edge of your pulsing clit. You try to silence the whimper that creeps up the back of your throat but you choke on it instead, and when it escapes it sounds strained and desperate.

Murasakibara drags his tongue between the seam of his lips then, his eyes fixed on the space between your thighs. You draw your bottom lip between the edges of your teeth as your body sways involuntarily on the spot. Murasakibara looks up to meet the wide-eyed focus of your gaze and there's nothing but shadowed determination in his expression that offers you any traction—and even that has you reeling, has you pinned to where you stand as if paralyzed by his piercing observation—but then he's trapping you beneath the resistance of his forearm anyway.

“You never said you wouldn't sleep with me,” Murasakibara says, and the sound of his voice catches you even more by surprise, has you gripping the broad span of his shoulders for purchase. Before you can get any semblance of security from what little leverage you have, he's slipping two fingers under the soft stitches of your panties, pulling aside the fabric with arrogant resolve.

You inhale sharply, let the breath fill your lungs in hopes that it can carry you through the next however many minutes Murasakibara decides to toy with you. It feels like blisters are forming on the tips of your fingers from the heat rushing to the unrelenting hold at his shoulders, the same heat you can see in the intensity of his gloss-eyed stare. And if there's anything left to be said, Murasakibara steals the opportunity from your lips when he mutters: “You just said it wasn't a good idea.” Then he's dragging a finger between your slick folds, spreading your sex around the salt and heat of the digit with the slightest care for what he's doing to you.

You don't know how or when you went so far off-track, but you're fumbling for speech that doesn't want to meet your lips because Murasakibara is inches from the radiance of your sex and your brain is short-circuiting from the obvious conclusion of what's going to happen.

“And I s-stand by that,” you stutter, words catching like a trapped hiss between your teeth. You're trembling from the effort it takes to stay standing, and you can see in the slight twitch of Murasakibara's lips that he's taking your statement as a personal challenge.

“Come closer,” he growls, hands flying to your hips to tug you into precarious balance. You barely have time to catch your weight on the shift of his shoulders before he hooks his fingers around the elastic of your panties and draws them down your legs. “You smell sweet,” is all he says as he nudges apart your legs with a strong hand, draping one over the crook of his arm.

You don't know what you were expecting given your juxtaposition, but you're startled into a state of shock when the slick slide of his tongue is spreading you open, the tip of it flicking over your clit teasingly without a modicum of warning. He hums something low and thick that _feels_ like the very definition of indecency as a wave of languid shudders passes through your body.

Murasakibara lifts your leg higher, painting the shape of his fingers along the inside of your thigh. “Open,” he demands, long digits tightening on your skin to signify what he wants. It takes a moment for clarity to click, but when it does the vulgarity of his request settles like dust on the back of your tongue. Yet, your arm seems to be moving of its own accord, fingers ghosting the curve of your belly before sliding to the need calling for attention. Murasakibara exhales a sharp breath and as you part your lips you swear you can feel your fingers grow slick in reflexive response.

“Please.” Your voice is resonant but hardly stable, and it only adds to the wash of heat darkening your complexion. However, it seems to spark something inside of Murasakibara because he's leaning forward to drag his tongue over the line of your entrance; then he's fucking you, slow and deliberate, his nose grinding friction against your clit that has all the blood in your veins rushing to your apex.

His touch takes you impossibly high, leaves you to whimper through a string of incoherent pleas as you rock forward instinctively for the slick pressure of his tongue. The motion has Murasakibara moaning, the purr of it shocking sensation into your spine as he sucks on your flesh hard enough to flare heat into a prickle of sensitivity. His tongue catches on your fingers and the sound of your arousal with the slick on his lips has you tipping forward, a shout dying amidst the shudder of breath that pours from your mouth.

Murasakibara groans so low that you can feel the hum of it under your skin, and you're tensing the fingers on his shoulders for the tremor that runs all through your body. The starburst pleasure that has your breath coming faster proves as a distraction because you don't realize that he's drawn his cock into open-air until he comes hot and slick over his fingers. Furthermore, by the time you can open your eyes to take in his face, slick with your arousal, you're too tired to care about the mess he's left on your floor.

Then Murasakibara is tugging himself upright, fingers dragging sticky resistance over your hips. It sparks sensation down your spine, makes your toes furl for the pleasure that it carries. It's a welcome feeling, but one that makes you realize how long it's been since you felt this wanted. It's terrifying and exhilarating all the same, and you find that your breath has gone shaky when Murasakibara presses his soiled fingers to your lips.

You're beginning to think that you've lost your head.

* * *

The nights that follow stay silent and you find yourself wearing your rug thin for the times you've circled your living room. You tell yourself that you don't care, that he's still a child in thought and that you're miles from where he stands when it comes to maturity—which does hold some truth—but you don't think you're ready to kiss it all goodbye and throw your body out to sea.

So you pick up your phone and dial his number. He answers on the third ring with nothing more than a short, “Yeah?” his voice muffled and low.

You think about hanging up, slipping beneath your moonlit sheets, and forgetting about the way his hands felt on your skin, but there's a shift of movement coming through the phone and you find yourself hoping that he's been waiting for this.

That's when the night pulls you in, has you agreeing on a meeting place not far from your apartment; and somehow you _still_ can't parse all the reasons this matters so much.

* * *

It's not quite the heart of the city but it's lively enough, and Murasakibara seems to prefer the less populated areas anyway. You remember asking him about it once, to which he replied in his usual drawl, that people are too noisy before muttering something about supply and demand as he wandered into a convenience store.

It's strange how much you can learn about a person in such a short amount of time. Especially a person who talks far less than he eats. Yet, there's something almost clairvoyant between you, a metaphysical algorithm that's overwritten the necessity to ask questions that already have answers. Though you still can't grasp _how_ you know so much about him—you just _do_.

It's snowing and the temperatures have dropped at least ten degrees since you left home, making you a shivering mess by the time Murasakibara comes into view. His nose is bitten by cold and his cheeks are red, but he looks as unaffected by the frigid air as he does most things and for some reason, it makes you smile.

When he greets you it's with a nod and a tired, “Hello, ____-chin,” which seems to exhaust the remains of what little energy he has left. But when you wrap your hands in the warmth of his scarf to pull him into a kiss he doesn't offer up any form of protest. Your fingers are pressing against the angle of his jaw and the slow glide of his lips on the chill of your mouth feels like a forecast kiss you've been waiting days for.

You exhale a breath and it feels like Murasakibara's pulling the air from your lungs directly. He's backing you against the glass of a store-front window, hands buried in the yielding threads of your coat to force warmth back into your body. He leans in as you balance your weight on the tips of your toes, lets his lips melt into anticipation against the shape of your mouth, and just before you close your eyes, you notice the snow that's clinging to his lashes. The salt on your tongue turns to sugar as you inhale the scent of his skin, bearing the faintest notes of cinnamon and mulled cider wrapped in a blanket of cold.

You don't know how much time passes but it can't be long before you're chased from the store, the owner shouting at you in short sentences that don't reach coherency for the hum of static in your ears.

You wind up in an alley, the laughter on your lips laced with breathless enthusiasm. You can feel yourself trembling, lightning running through your veins for the first time in what feels like forever. Simultaneously, Murasakibara is curling his fingers around your wrist to pin you against the wall, his strength unmatched against the shakiness of your limbs. He kisses the uncertainty from your lips, drives away the burn that settles in the ache of your muscles—but before the warmth of appreciation can reach the rest of your body, he's sliding his hand into the fabric of your pants to fuck you on his fingers.

You end up rearranging your plans in favor of a hot bubble bath and more coffee than one should consume in the late hours of the night.

Murasakibara insists on taking a bath with you, which results in too many limbs for the size of your tub. There's water spilling over the edge of the porcelain vessel and he's complaining about the way your heel is digging into his calf. It takes an awkward shift of motion and balance that's thrown into question when Murasakibara trips you unintentionally before you reach an agreement—which truly doesn't benefit you at all since it leaves you to bathe him—but you don't mind because the part of you that longs to care for him relishes these moments.

By the time you're finished wiping up the floor, Murasakibara is tipping sideways on your couch, his eyes straining against the sleep that tugs at his conscious awareness. There's a collection of mugs on the coffee table in front of him, but you suppose it takes a surplus of caffeine to sustain him.

You're washing dishes when his touch comes to you in the form of surprise, shocking a shrill cry from your lungs when he wraps his arms around your waist to trap you between himself and the counter. His hands slip beneath your shirt and ghost your skin, finding the weight of your breasts without the barrier of wire and satin to restrict his unstated demand. Your hands are still wet, glistening with tiny bubbles when he spins you around to mouth at the fullness of your breasts with all the veneration of a child seeking comfort.

You think the pieces are finally coming together but it's too early to parse the potential outcomes of your relationship, and nothing beneficial has ever come from spontaneous confession anyway.

You utilize the closeness of the counter for support as you run your fingers over his hardness, the length of it straining and hot against your palm. He makes a noise that sounds like a rumble of encouragement, though, it's not until you're stroking over him roughly that he withdraws from the tenderness of your breasts with a shuddering gasp.

There's a touch of warmth in his gaze that you haven't glimpsed before, and you can see vulnerability in the line of his throat when he works down a swallow. It looks a lot like a contradiction, but it doesn't matter because he's dragging the spit-slick of his lips along your collarbone and it's then when you realize that you just don't _care_.

Subsequently, Murasakibara's spilling completion over your hand, and you can taste more than the heat of his skin on your lips before he manages to shove his fingers into your mouth. You lap at his digits like there's a secret in the viscous submission on his skin, and it's not until he looks visibly shaken that he draws his fingers down over your lips.

He leaves you with saliva on your chin and the kind of silence that rings in your ears. A thousand questions are burning through your mind but the only thing that's concrete in the certitude is that the static is poison.

* * *

Time for your next meeting arrives and you're running late because it seems as though an encounter with Murasakibara never comes without a handful of complications.

You politely push your way through a crowd of rambunctious boys, fingers closing on your phone when it signals a missed text. Your eyes scan the screen, lips drawing up into a smile at the words beneath Murasakibara's name: _you're late._

You don't bother responding because you're within minutes of your usual meeting place. The happiness that spills down the back of your throat and overflows in your chest doesn't connect with your brain. It doesn't help you process just how much Murasakibara has gotten under your skin.

You reach the cafe and close your fingers around the entry door's handle, apologizing to a child on the other side when you nearly collide. There's something familiar in the way his forehead creases, the way he's narrowing his eyes to speak for his opposition; and it doesn't click right away, but when it does you find yourself laughing because the similarities are so glaringly obvious it's almost _painful_.

You scan the crowd for Murasakibara, which is pointless really because his appearance is as eye-catching as the sun in a cloudless sky. You find him within seconds but he's not alone. You recognize the boy sitting across from him as one of the basketball players you had seen on the court previously. It seems so distant now but for some reason unbeknownst to you, you don't want to count the days you've spent together.

You make your way across the cafe, idle chatter drowning out the sound of your approach. You're drawing closer to Murasakibara when the boy opposite him laughs, shaking his head in a gesture that seems bred out of habit.

“You feel that way because you _like_ her, Atsushi. Who cares if she's a bit older than you? I think that suits you better anyway.”

Murasakibara groans his way into response, plucking at the edges of the other boy's dessert until he succumbs and slides it in Murasakibara's direction. “I don't want to like anyone. 'Sides, what makes you think that she suits me?”

The dark-haired boy smiles softly and reaches for his coat. He lifts his gaze and even through the inky fall of his fringe you know that he's caught you staring. You lower your head as color blossoms across your cheekbones, flushing your skin to warmth.

“Because you're a child, Atsushi. You want to be taken care of, that much is obvious.” He slides out of his seat and shrugs into his jacket, his lips taking the shape of a smile that looks a lot like sympathy. “Look, the only way you're going to get answers is to speak to her directly. That or try your hand with Coach, but I doubt she's going to offer up any words of wisdom. Unless you want to hear _I told you so_.”

Murasakibara mumbles something you can't hear, then he's waving the other boy off as if he has nothing left to say, save for a mumbled, “Go away, Muro-chin.”

“I'm on it, Atsushi. Good luck.” He lets the weight of his palm fall on Murasakibara's shoulder in a friendly gesture before he walks away, pretending not to notice that he caught you eavesdropping.

You quickly memorize his face as you make a mental note to thank him, should you ever see him again. You wish you had time to dissect the pieces of the conversation you've just heard but Murasakibara is reaching for his phone and you can almost read impatience in the way tension pulls at the lines of his shoulders. You think to add an extra hitch to your breathing, pretending at short-winded fatigue as you slide into the place of the previous boy's warmth.

You don't bring up what you've just heard and he doesn't offer, but the conversation is quick to leave your mind because Murasakibara wastes no time as he ticks a list of complaints off the tips of his fingers.

You talk until your lips are chapped and no amount of coffee can quench your thirst. Then Murasakibara's phone chimes and his brows pull together in consternation. There's something sticky on the plastic exterior—undoubtedly the remnants of his candy-coated touch—that catches on his fingers when he slips the device into his pocket. He tells you that he's going to be late for a basketball game and you realize that you've never even _asked_ him for the name of his university.

And when you do, the words spilling from your lips without consequence, he turns around wearing an expression you can't quite read. Then he says, “I don't go to university. I'm still in high school.”

Your mouth falls slack on a response that doesn't move past the barriers of your teeth. Your blood runs cold and you're suddenly hit with a breathless rush of questions and important details that remain unspoken. The thrum of your heart grows louder, filling your head with an ache that nearly blinds you. It doesn't last long but by the time you put the pieces of your mental acuity back together, Murasakibara is gone.

You sit in silence for a long moment, breath lodged in your throat, and an ache in your rib cage. You wonder how it's possible that you've gone this long without knowing his age—which you still don't _know_ —and that's when you start to doubt the integrity of your relationship.

For a moment, you wish that you could take it all back, that you could forget the way he looks when he smiles, the way your hand fits in his, and the way his lips feel against your skin.

But blood still stains when the sheets are washed and you're too selfish to let him go.

* * *

Four days pass before you see him again and it's not entirely your choice when it happens.

There's a knock on your door and it doesn't dawn on you that it could be Murasakibara until it's too late. You try to offer up words of objection but he's bodily pushing his way into your apartment before you can put volume to speech.

“Why have you been avoiding me?” he asks, articulation razor-sharp on his tongue. The sound of it sets your teeth on edge but you think it's a matter of coincidence because you've done nothing to warrant punishment.

“I haven't been,” you answer, sharper than strictly necessary. “It's just—I have my job and you have school and I don't–”

“I'm eighteen,” Murasakibara interjects, and you don't know the reason for it, but there's anger turning to shadow in the light of his eyes. “I'm old enough to decide what I want.” He's crowding you against the door, the dark outline of his body swallowing you whole. “I might be a lot of things but I'm not stupid.”

“I never said you were stupid, Atsushi.” The statement goes unshaken, solid, and sincere. Still, it's not enough to pacify the boy in front of you because he's shoving you hard against the wood at your back. The force of it knocks the breath from your lungs, sends you tipping sideways for purchase you can't find. Then his hands are everywhere at once, keeping you upright in favor of pressing an urgent kiss to your mouth. His teeth catch on your lips and there's the low resonance of a growl vibrating in the shadow of his throat, but you can't keep yourself from melting into the contact. You try to remind yourself to think logically, that feeding off your emotions only spawns trouble but he's dragging you in the direction of the bedroom and you're deluded by what you've wanted since the very day you laid eyes on him. So you find yourself withering in denial, chasing after him like the tables have turned and there aren't seven years between you.

And it's not until he's tugging his shirt over his head and your knees are catching at the end of the bed that you realize you want him so badly it hurts.

“I'm not going to let you forget about me,” Atsushi growls, forcing your arms above your head to strip you of the shirt hugging close to your body. It catches on your chin and you find yourself growing impatient regardless of the hesitation tugging at the strings of your self-doubt. Then he's casting the material aside and freeing the button on his jeans to withdraw the growing hardness of his arousal.

“I haven't forgotten about you,” you manage, breath slipping into a shaky pant as he forces you into supine submission. There's a rumble of annoyance in the back of his throat and when your lips come apart for whatever it is you want to say, he's silencing you with another kiss to drive the words right out of your head.

It's overwhelming enough with the sudden onslaught of motion but Murasakibara's flipping you onto your stomach to bend you over a haphazardly placed stack of pillows. You can't move for the weight that's pinning you to the mattress, but by the time he's lifting you up to slide the length of his tongue over your cunt you're shaking apart, weak-kneed, and near tears.

Your hands are tangled in the mess of your sheets and the sound of Murasakibara's slick tongue on the wet heat of your skin only has you tugging harder, threatening the stitches holding them together. It feels as if he's devouring you, drinking the nectar between your thighs as if he's never tasted something so sweet—and you're shuddering by the time a plastic bottle comes open and there's a spill of liquid over his fingers. It drips on the bed and catches on the inside of your thigh before his fingers come into contact with your skin. It's only then that you wonder what he's done with the rest of your clothing, but the thought is quickly driven from your head because he's sliding a digit into the tight resistance of your body. The sensation is overwhelming and you have to sink your teeth into the pillows beneath you to keep from screaming.

And when he's worked you open, fingers buried deep inside your body and palm slick with arousal, you throw away the last fragments of your apprehension. You know there's no use in talking because Murasakibara never listens, and there's nothing to be said about practice in patience because you never learn.

You hear the bottle come open again and the slick slide that meets your ears has your body prickling with electricity so hot it branches through you like lightning. He slides into you slowly, inhaling like he's tasting oxygen for the first time.

Your mouth comes open on a breath of surprise as your body tries to acclimate to the intrusion. Your shoulders draw high into tension as your nails catch on the fibers of your sheets, body spasming as Murasakibara draws back before sliding in deeper, each thrust slow and deliberate.

“Atsushi, your cock is too big,” you gasp, saliva clinging to your lips as you pant for air you can't seem to get enough of. “I never said you could fuck me like this.”

“I never asked,” Murasakibara growls, driving deeper to punctuate the shadow of truth scraping raw against his tone. “Your hungry pussy is getting greedy anyway—it's dripping from how much you want this.”

The vulgarity of his speech makes you cling to the pillows holding you up, body wringing tight around the thickness of his cock as he fucks the tremble right out of you. You feel like you're going to break, the boundaries of your self-control wearing thin with each drag of his hips. The ache of being stretched burns through you, has you flinching for the catch of thrumming heat against parts of you that have never been explored. Then he's dragging a hand over the curve your hip, fingers digging into the plush resistance of your body as he fucks into you slow and deep.

“Atsushi—fuck, _please_ ,” you beg, the plea stretching into a dying whine on your lips. It's not for lack of volume, it's due to Murasakibara's hand, bracing at the back of your skull to silence your speech in the give of feather-soft support.

“You talk too much, ____-chin,” he says, snapping his hips upward. “Right now, you're only as good as the bruises on your thighs.” You can feel the shift of his breathing change, the hand at your hip going tighter, but it's not enough to cancel out what he wants to say. “And that means that I'm going to do whatever I want to you.”

You're writhing when he thrusts into you at a sharper angle, driving the sensation home like the too-hot pleasure that has you tipping into hypersensitive overdrive. You lift your hips higher to encourage his next slide, and when it comes he buries himself so deep inside of you that you can practically taste him on your tongue. Your vision shifts from gray to black, blurring the tilt of the room to an amorphous nebula of color. There's static in your ears and a curse so thick on your tongue it feels like lead. Then your blood turns to ash and you're smashing the cosmic model with the sound that tears past your throat in the lilt of his name.

You don't hear Murasakibara when he growls but you feel it in the resonance that purrs up the whole length of your spine, leaving you to shiver beneath the vibration of it. Then he's capitulating to the pleasure overflowing his veins, filling you with short, hot spurts of come that seem to have no end. It leaves you feeling wet and sticky and it's just on this side of too much when he slowly slides out of you, abandoning the mess of it to drip down the slick heat of your thrumming sex. The idle drag of friction sends sparks across your skin, causes you to shudder through another wave of sensation that makes you feel fucked loose and bone weary.

Murasakibara's breath clings to the sweat-damp of your skin as he drags his knuckles over the viscous mess between your thighs, and you know what he's doing even before the hand is at your lips. It makes you feel dirty and vulnerable but the force pulling you together is magnetic and at this moment, you firmly believe that you'd do anything for him.

You don't feel like the same person anymore, and as you drag the smooth of your tongue over the scratch of his knuckles, you wonder how much he's taken you over.

* * *

When you wake in the morning, Murasakibara is at your side. His head is half-hidden beneath the corner of a pillow, the loose tangle of purple strands fanning across the cotton beneath. His legs are bent at what appears to be an uncomfortable angle but he's snoring in a way that suggests he's in a state of suspended consciousness. There's tension in your limbs that spells the memory of yesterday and you're too tired to bother with the things that mornings call for; so instead, you draw shapes over the rise and fall of Murasakibara's chest until he groans into awareness.

“You're staring.” Murasakibara sounds more bored than he does interested, hand coming to rest on the pillow covering his head in what might have been an attempt to rid himself of its weight if he hadn't grown lazy halfway through the motion.

“Sorry,” you say, sleep dragging the word into a soft slur of plangency.

“Mm,” Murasakibara moans, draping an arm over your waist with more force than necessary. The bed bounces in its frame, causing you to roll into the firm heat of his muscled chest.

“Your arm is too heavy, Atsushi.” You shove at the long appendage, laughing when the moan on his lips turns to grumbled complaint.

“But you're soft and squishy,” he slurs, tipping his chin down to bury his head in the space between your pillows.

“Should I be offended?” The question is light on your lips, playful, yet fragile like spun-sugar.

“Hm?” Murasakibara furrows his brow, his eyes shut tight to keep out the light filtering through your curtains. “Oh, no. I like it. It's nice to have something to hold on to.” He pauses as if he's taking a moment to reconsider his thoughts before he says, “You're too short, though.”

“Everyone is too short when it comes to you.” You slide your hand through the fall of his hair, then let your fingers rest against the smooth contour of his cheek. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“No,” is all he says, low and outlined with the edge of a whine.

You smile and trace the shape of his mouth with your thumb, eyes fixed on the cracks in his lips. After a brief moment, his lips part for a sigh and he's nipping on the pad of your warm digit.

“____-chin?” Murasakibara says, lips moving around the curve of your thumb.

You let the weight of your hand slide down the line of his throat and settle at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Do you remember that time on the street when you bumped into me?”

“You bumped into me but yes, I do. Why do you ask?” You tilt your head and let curiosity take the place of bare-faced comfort.

“You asked me if I remembered taking your pastry and I said that I didn't.” He opens his eyes then, blinking the world into focus before moistening the cracks in his lips to temporary smoothness. “I was lying.”

Warmth blossoms in your chest and you don't have to put what you're thinking to voice because you know what he's telling you. You lower your head, hiding the flush that creeps across the contours of your cheeks.

“Are you going to kick me out?” Murasakibara drawls, a faint glimmer of concern slipping between the notes of hollow articulation.

“I haven't gotten that far yet.” You slip a foot between Murasakibara's legs, relishing the heat that emanates from his skin.

“Okay.” Murasakibara inhales deeply, lets it expand the lines of his chest before releasing a gust of breath that has his shoulders falling into slack submission. He stills for a moment, and you find yourself listening to the quiet backdrop of the apartment. Then he groans and rolls onto his back, draping an arm over his eyes. “____-chin, I'm hungry.”

“Then go make yourself something to eat,” you murmur, smiling at the suburban prince next to you. “I'll make you a deal. If you cook breakfast, I'll let you fuck me again.”

“I can do that whenever,” Murasakibara complains, though he's already clumsily sliding out of bed.

“Then how about this: I'll take care of you for as long as you want.”

He looks as if he's considering the spoken gesture as he tugs his boxers up the length of his long legs, then nods once before leaving the room.

Your heart falls out of rhythm at that instant and a shiver of delight tingles all through your body. You curl into the mess of your blankets and press your face into his pillow, inhaling the scent of his shampoo.

* * *

You don't know how long it's been since you started seeing Murasakibara, but there's something comforting about coming home to his shoes by the front door and the smell of dinner cooking in the kitchen. It's not something that happens every day, but with a frequency that makes the taxing ingemination of going to work each day tolerable.

And some days are better than others of course—because there are times when you think he's utterly impossible and you find that you're asking yourself why you settled for a boy with the maturity of a five-year-old. But then he's kissing you like you're the only thing that matters. And when he pulls you into the strength of his arms, it feels like he's holding you in the golden afterlife, and all of the blood and the tears and the sacrifice melts into something far more beautiful.

You are twenty-five and he's eighteen and neither of you is ready to admit it, but you're painstakingly, _positively_ in love.

But until the day comes that you're ready to navigate those troubled waters, you'll continue to wear the marks he's given you as a trophy of his unspoken affection.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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